


Silence

by chantefable



Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Celts, M/M, Post-Canon, Road Trips, Silence, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-05-30 13:40:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15097802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chantefable/pseuds/chantefable
Summary: Marcus and Esca are making slow progress through the soothing verdant calm of Gaul towards their happily ever after.





	Silence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Highsmith (quimtessence)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quimtessence/gifts).



> The swirly and vegetal style of the objects, sites, and supernatural is based on the La Tène culture aesthetics (late period of ancient Celts).

"Though silence is not necessarily an admission, it is not a denial, either."  
Cicero

  


They have been riding along the skirts of the forest for several long hours; with trembling tree-leaves as far as the eye can see, Marcus cannot deny that a strange disquiet is stirring inside him, for the forest appears limitless and uncomfortably close.

The road, by contrast, appears open and secure. Right now, it has given free rein to Zephyr the west wind, and Marcus can taste its cool saltiness on his lips, can feel its sharp touch on his face and his knuckles. This same wind could be hurrying from Britannia, Marcus thinks. Perhaps it had been whirling across its hills and plains before dashing across the sea and rushing along this road, painting Esca's cheeks an attractive pink. The thought feels far too frivolous to be shared; besides, Esca, riding between Marcus and the edge of the forest, seems to be focused on other things: rising in his stirrups, he points at a large oak tree in the distance. To Marcus, it looks much the same as a multitude of other oak trees, but he trusts Esca that this is the sign they have been looking for and follows him into the forest.

Indeed, they do not spend very long looking for the promised clearing: it all but spreads itself before them, round like a torc and shiny with dew. A lone wooden well stands in the middle of it, with animal shapes, spirals and trumpets carved into the sides, and even the simple straw roof covering it looks solemn and well-kept. The air smells humid and alive. Marcus busies himself with the horses while Esca promptly dismounts and approaches the well; the sounds of wheel and axle and the splash of water rise above the trill of birds and the rustle of the leaves. 

Running his wind-bitten fingers through his horse's mane, Marcus cannot help feeling like an intruder, like even the beating of his heart and the sound of his voice are too loud and alien for this place; almost embarrassed, he even refrains from answering Esca's question aloud, instead preferring to hum and stare at the swirly tree roots forming the slightly raised circular edge of the clearing. 

Suddenly, Marcus feels inexplicable pressure, his hackles rising even as a mighty shiver runs down his spine. He can sense no danger but the unmistakable unknown, as if something were closing in on him from all sides, something invisible and intangible.

Suddenly, his mouth tastes like iron, and although rationally, Marcus knows it is just the spike of panic making saliva well up, for a brief moment he fears that if he were to spit, if he were to unseal his lips even a little, he would be unable to contain the gush of blood.

The illusion is powerful and the fear is ugly, so Marcus looks for the light within himself to dispel it but he finds none. 

There is nothing but the bland white light streaming down from the sky like milk, and the soft susurration of the tree branches clasping the clearing tightly, and Esca, bent over the open maw of the well, propping himself with an elbow and serenely gazing straight into its depths. He takes unhurried sips from the palm of his hand, and he radiates such calm that the inexplicable panic eases its hold on Marcus.

Taking care to disguise the unbecoming raggedness of his breaths, Marcus approaches the well himself, his every step even and measured, as if were marching under orders. Such Roman steps feel odd and out of place here, and the very blades of grass underfoot seem to be laughing at him softly. Marcus takes the bucket Esca has pulled out of the well, and notes that it is smooth with wear, almost delicate. An intricate design of interlacing spirals is etched into the handle.

He breaks the surface of the water with both hands, bringing the improvised cup to his chapped lips and drinking his fill. The water is fresh but strangely briny, hurrying down his throat with serpentine slickness. After washing his face and blinking stray droplets from his eyes, Marcus becomes aware of the curve of his own spine as he kneels before the bucket, the lines of Esca's calves and elbows, the stoop of his shoulders and the bare nape of his neck, the flowing folds of their clothing: together, they form a stark, curvilinear pattern that captivates him for an indescribably long while. 

Marcus only comes back to his senses when he feels the firm clasp of Esca's hand on his shoulder; immediately, he is soothed by the steady warmth of that hand, just like he had been whenever Esca used to massage away the hurt from Marcus' mangled leg back in Calleva. His eyes fall on the fibula clasping Esca's cloak, the elaborate head of the clasp polished to a gleam. The deep stylised lines on it are like static waves, and Marcus finds himself rocked by the roll they are meant to evoke. 

They let the horses drink and replenish their water supply before heading out of the clearing. The green of it is still lofty and luminous, alight with subtle threat, but Marcus no longer finds himself reaching for words of prayer to Mithras inside his head. Somehow, they feel both inappropriate and unnecessary.

By his side, Esca is at ease, effortlessly guiding them further away and towards the edge of the forest. He speaks of the rest they will have when they stay in town overnight, of the arrangements to be made and of the fine weather. Marcus is so pleased by Esca's chattiness and good mood, and so keen to hide his own giddiness, that he hardly spares a thought for anything else, so by the time they are out of the forest and back on the main road, all of his queer fears have dissipated without him noticing and the foreign pressure has retreated from his consciousness.

The thirst has stayed with Marcus, though, but by now, he begins to suspect that it could never be quenched with water.

**Author's Note:**

> Qui tacet non utique fatetur, sed tamen verum est eum non negare (Though silence is not necessarily an admission, it is not a denial, either) - Marcus Tullius Cicero (106 BC – 43 BC), Roman philosopher, lawyer and constitutionalist, in Paulus, L, 17.


End file.
